A Warrior's Lady. Margaret Moore
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had forgotten about Piers Delasaine, and something of his curiosity about her petition regarding him must have shown on Reece’s face, for she said, “I care a great deal for my brother, Sir Reece. I’ve been a mother to him since our own died giving birth to him. I want only the best for Piers. That’s why I asked the king to let him come with us. Damon and the others are no fit teachers or examples for him. I would have him learn from the best of men, not the worst.”
Pleased by her compliment to his father, he covered her slender hand, so light upon him, with his own. He owed it to her to have her sure of the truth. “Yet what your brother said was true, my lady. My father was born a bastard. I am but one generation removed from the gutter.”
Her eyes flared, the sudden fierceness catching him off guard. “I am not a fool to judge by birth, Sir Reece. If noble birth was all it took to be chivalrous, my half brothers would be paragons, but most peasants are more chivalrous than they.”
As her eyes blazed with spirit and fire, all the trouble that had brought them together drifted away. He became a man looking at a lovely woman of intelligence and compassion, remarkably free from the prejudice that tainted many a noblewoman.
He wanted to tell her so, or say something of how she impressed him, but the words would not come.
She pulled her hand free and glided to a door that, he realized, could not lead back into the hall where his brothers, his friends and her half brothers would be waiting, no doubt informed of the king’s decision by Henry himself. They would surely all be anxious to speak of it and offer their advice, welcome or not.
He couldn’t blame Anne for leaving by another exit, and he decided to follow her example.
After she was well away.
Gervais stared at his injured brother as if Reece had suddenly declared he was entering the priesthood. “You gave up? You agreed? You will wed that woman?”
Reece’s gaze swept over the others assembled in their chamber after they had returned from the king’s hall. Blaidd Morgan leaned on the windowsill, arms and ankles crossed with deceptive nonchalance. Blaidd’s brother Kynan sat on one of the cots, his elbows on his knees and fingers laced, also deceptively calm, and Trev was seated on the floor, his legs folded like a nesting bird. Trev’s expression, like Gervais’s, spoke plainly of what he was thinking: that his elder brother must have been temporarily deranged to agree to marry Lady Anne Delasaine. Reece didn’t doubt the Morgans thought so, too. They were merely better at keeping their opinions from their faces.
“I had no choice,” he answered. “Henry was adamant, and he is the king.”
The others exchanged glances.
“What, you all would have argued with him?”
He had them there.
“I did protest,” he continued, “but Henry was in no mood for dissent, and I thought it wiser to agree to do as he ordered.”
“You could have said you could not wed without your father’s approval,” Blaidd remarked.
“As though I am Trev’s age? I think not.” Reece crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I never said I was pleased with the situation.”
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